


Mission Improbable

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [23]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Blood and Injury, Captured!, Fort Drakon, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Zevran is an opportunist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-16
Packaged: 2018-03-01 14:48:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2777057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If Theron had of known what Fort Drakon was like, he might have decided to fight.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“Warden!”

To his surprise, the title wasn’t shouted at him, but Ser Cauthrien’s voice had a firm tone of authority to it. Theron sighed, glancing back at his small retinue; Sten, Wynne and Oghren, along with Queen Anora and her handmaid.

The group had spent most of the day running around after Arl Howe and his guards, and now the coward lay dead in a dungeon somewhere. Theron was tired; Anora had insisted on staying with them rather than finding another way out of the estate, and ensuring her survival adding to his list of worries. Truthfully, the elf just wanted to leave without further bloodshed, perhaps take a day or two off to recuperate before turning to rumours surrounding the Alienage.

“In the name of the regent I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Rendon Howe and his men-at-arms. Surrender, and you may be shown mercy.”

Theron looked around at the room; even with a Qunari, a dwarven berserker and a healer, they were outmatched through sheer number of heavily armed guards. Besides, there was Anora and her handmaiden to worry about.

The ranger let out a deep sigh, not reaching for his bow for once, and his shoulders fell. He felt so very tired of it all, and he could feel his energy drain out of him as his body reached a decision just before his mind.

“Fine, I surrender - so long as Anora and the rest of my group are allowed to leave peacefully. You don’t know the whole story.” He said, keeping his hands relaxed at his sides rather than reach for his bow.

Sten frowned at him, and Oghren made a quiet noise of disgust.

“You’re givin’ up just like that?” The dwarf asked.

“It’s a sensible choice. There had been enough violence within these walls for one day.” Wynne replied, keeping a wary eye on the guards as they advanced on Theron.

“Good. Let the rest of them go, and take him to the fort.” Ser Cauthrien ordered her men, some of the aggression leaving her voice now she knew she wouldn’t have to fight.

Wynne led the way out, Sten moving to the back of the small procession in case it was some kind of trap.

If Theron had of known what Fort Drakon was like, he might have decided to fight.

 

For the third time today - or perhaps night, it was difficult to tell the time of day precisely when the windows were so far overhead - Theron cursed the inventiveness of _shemlen_ as he was led back to his cell. They’d taken no chances with the Grey Warden, confiscating everything he owned and locking it away just at the other end of the room. He was even hobbled, and gagged at times after they learnt he tended to bite or swear. He never screamed, though.

Pain rippled through him, and he looked down at the cuts on his chest. The torturer was something of an artist today, had mirrored the intricate design of his _vallaslin_ rather than ruin his forehead. It hadn’t hurt quite as much as some of the other things they'd done to him, though, but the bleeding was a little worrying.

His shoulders ached, but he was careful not to jostle the half-healed burn wounds that spanned across them as he was shoved through his cell door. They used only enough healing magic to ensure that he would survive the night, or not bleed out while they were trying to get him to confess to murdering that coward Howe.

Of course, Theron didn’t want to give them the satisfaction, now or ever, of being able to execute him. Howe had been a cruel man, had broken the various men and women locked away in his cellar for his and Loghain’s means. Besides, Oghren had been the one to actually strike the killing blow, not himself.

The ranger smiled to himself at the thought of Oghren in here with him as he curled up on the floor in a corner he’d decided would be where he slept - he’d learnt not to take one of the corners at the other end of the cell where the guards patrolled; they threw buckets of ice water on him from time to time to liven a dull evening up.

No, Oghren in here would be unbearable. He’d probably still manage to get drunk somehow. And the smell. Theron shook his head to himself, sighing softly.

At least he hadn’t actually talked yet. He’d gone silent as soon as the guards had led him out of the estate, and had refused to speak yet, even to the man in the cell next to him. He wasn’t sure entirely why, but part of him simply didn’t want to talk, so he didn’t. He only really swore and cursed when he was led out of his cell again and left in the capable hands of the torturer.

The ranger closed his eyes with a sigh, shifting where he lay to try and find a position that didn't hurt either his shoulders or front. He may as well try to sleep before the guards decided to get him up and drag him out again, whenever that would be.

 

Outside Fort Drakon, Sten and Zevran were formulating a battle plan. Or, rather, Zevran was trying to emphasise how much more effective and quick subterfuge and lying was over charging in swinging a greatsword around.

“We don’t want to put the whole fort on alert, you know. Otherwise it will just be me and you against Maker-knows how many guards and war dogs.” The elf pointed out, and Sten narrowed his eyes as he considered it.

“But how will we get in?” The Qunari asked, and Zevran grinned.

“Leave it to me, my giant friend. I have an idea.”

 

The guards snapped to attention long before they were in speaking distance, Zevran noted. Perhaps because a heavily armoured Qunari glaring at them was not exactly an easy sight to miss. He kept his own body language under tight control, relaxed enough to seem nonthreatening, but with a set to his shoulders and a lift of his head that spoke of confidence, that he had every right to be here.

“This is it? I thought it was supposed to be a fort.” Sten muttered under his breath, a low rumble, and Zevran smirked as he led the way down the ridiculously long corridor to the two door guards.

“You know, you never feel so alive as when you’re breaking and entering.” Zevran shrugged casually.

“State your business.” One of the guards said, holding a hand out to halt the two men. He sounded so very bored. Then again, standing around all day had to be a very mind-numbing activity.

They’d agreed that Zevran would do most of the talking; he was better at bluffing, and having Sten merely standing there mutely and looking dour would probably unnerve the shorter humans if nothing else.

“I have a delivery for the commander of the fort.”

“What is it?” The guard asked, seeming to stir out of his lethargy and frowning at the two. “I wasn’t told about any deliveries coming in today.”

“Well…” Zevran sighed, shifting his weight from foot to foot, as if he was debating on letting the man in on a secret. “The items are of a, ah, _personal_ nature, you see. No doubt he didn’t want anyone to know.” He explained. He’d missed lying through his teeth.

The guard sighed, and gestured to a waiting room off to the left.

“Fine. Wait in there, I’ll get the captain.”

Zevran hid a smirk as the guard went through the door, leaving just one still on duty. How tempting it would be to stick a dagger in him, toss the body into a shadowy corner and slip through before anyone came back. But that was almost as bad as Sten’s idea, so he merely nodded and wandered over.

“There! Not so difficult, was it?” The elf asked, sitting down on one of the uncomfortable stone benches and radiating confidence still. Sten snorted in response, standing near the door.

“Astonishing. You have managed to get us even further from the door than we were when we came in. Well done.” The Qunari replied, shaking his head slowly.

“Pah, have some faith, my dear Qunari. You are in the company of a master assassin, don’t forget.”

“I would hate to see a novice, then.”

The jangling sound of armour announced the captain coming into the room, interrupting Zevran’s attempt to think up a cutting reply that the stoic giant would actually react to beyond a weary sigh.

“All right, what’s this about?”

“A delivery.” The elf replied, springing to his feet. An idea struck. “For which I still have not been paid, by the way.” He added quickly, frowning slightly in disapproval.

“No-one told me about any deliveries today.”

“I cannot imagine why not. Surely your commanding officer informs you whenever he is having items of a… Personal nature delivered to him, no? Regardless, I will not leave without my pay.”

“What is- Wait, no, I don’t want to know. Here, have what I’ve got on me and I’ll get the captain to send the rest later.” The captain sighed, shaking his head as he handed a heavy coin purse over. Zevran almost laughed aloud in amazement, but nodded as he pocketed the coin. “Go on in.” he added, stepping aside and then following the two through the door into the belly of the fort.

Zevran made sure to walk leisurely through the main hall, even nodding to one or two of the groups of guards as if he knew exactly where he was going. There seemed to be ballistas on raised wooden platforms - it was anyone’s guess as to why they were actually _inside_ the fort rather than, say, mounted on the battlements.

They paused when they reached the other end of the hall, spotting a female guard standing beside another door with her arms crossed. She looked far more alert than the two door guards.

“I do not think she will be as gullible as the rest.” Sten commented, and Zevran nodded.

“We may want to rethink our approach.” He sighed, and the Qunari looked down at him.

“Are we being subtle now? I couldn’t tell.”

Zevran scowled at him then.

“Fine, you go talk to her. I will find a nice corner from which to kill a decent amount of guards when you end up blowing our cover.”

The Antivan hung back just within hearing range, watching Sten approach the woman warily, hands near his blades just in case.

“Tell me, are you a soldier or an ornament?”

“What is that supposed to mean?” The guard asked, frowning as she looked up at the Qunari suspiciously.

“Here you stand, with no battle to fight. No purpose to set a watch inside one’s own fortress, so perhaps you are meant to be decorative.” Sten commented, as inexpressive as ever. But, he did have a point…

“I hadn’t thought of it that way.” The guard replied haltingly, looking down and frowning to herself in concern. Zevran watched in disbelief as she stepped away from the door.

“Boredom is likely the worst foe you will face here.”

“I joined the army to follow in my father’s footsteps, to make him proud. And what do I get? Barracks detail, three Saturnalias in a row now. Would he be proud of that? Andraste’s arse he would.” The guard looked up at Sten again. “You know, let someone else guard this stupid door, I’m going to live my life before it’s too late.” She announced, and with that strode off. Sten turned to Zevran expectantly.

“I cannot believe that actually worked.” The former Crow said flatly as he walked over to the now unguarded door, staring after the woman’s retreating form.

“I cannot believe you thought you were the only one with a silver tongue.” Sten answered as he pushed the door open.


	2. Chapter 2

“And this is where we dispense with the charm and subterfuge, my dear Qunari. These guards will know we have no business in being back here.” Zevran advised as they walked swiftly down the corridor, and Sten nodded once.

“Good.” He added, already reaching for Asala as they went through to the first room filled with guards.

Fort Drakon wasn’t quite as maze-like as it seemed, although they did take a wrong turn once or twice and ended up in the barracks. At least it gave Sten an excuse to wave his sword around a great deal.

Eventually, however, they reached the prisons, and from the sounds of it, the torture chambers as well. Zevran let Sten lead the attack, looting the keys from the jailor once the fight was over.

“Keep watch, someone may have discovered the trail of bodies we so thoughtfully left.” He advised, waving the Qunari off to guard the door while he scanned the rows of cells for any sign of a Dalish elf. There was one on the end that seemed empty, but when he got closer to inspect it he realised Theron was actually curled up on the floor.

Worry shot through him when he saw the blood, but he relaxed slightly when he saw that the elf was still breathing. Zevran lost no time in unlocking the cell door and pulling it open, leaning against the doorframe casually.

“Rise and shine, Alistair will whelp mabari pups if we don’t get you back soon.” He said when the ranger stirred and opened his eyes at the sound of the door creaking open. He noticed how Theron’s body tensed automatically when he saw someone standing in the doorway watching him, the way he curled in on himself and his grey eyes widened until he recognised the figure.

“Zevran?” The ranger asked, slowly pushing himself up and wincing when that disturbed the blood clots on his chest, the movements cracking them until fresh blood glimmered. His voice was rough with disuse, but his gaze was clear and steady, determined.

“The very same. Did you miss me?” The Antivan nodded, staring at the strange cuts on the other elf’s chest until he realised why they were so familiar with a sickening jolt. He looked away, and then stepped in to help Theron to his feet. “Can you walk?” He asked softly, looking the ranger over now he was closer and seeing the dozens of smaller cuts and bruises that littered his body.

“Yes, they were kind enough to not start on my legs or feet just yet.” Theron licked his dry lips as they stared at each other. “How long have I been here?”

“Four days.”

The ranger blinked, and then sighed deeply.

“They took my things.” He muttered, trying not to shiver in the cool air of the prison in just his smallclothes.

“They tend to do that.” Zevran nodded, about to give Theron a sympathetic pat on the back until he saw what looked a lot like healing burn marks across his shoulder blades, raw and crusted with clear discharge. Sten was standing patiently out in the corridor, sword held carefully, so the two elves took their time finding out just where they’d stored the ranger’s things.

It was quickly apparent that Theron couldn’t put his armour on without it pressing onto some open wound or another, even though he narrowed his eyes and gritted his teeth, so instead he pulled on his plainclothes after some bandages were hastily tied round his chest and shoulders to stem some of the bleeding and weeping.

He still insisted on putting his boots and gloves on, and refused to be parted from his bow when it was finally back in his hands. Zevran didn’t want to argue, but made sure Sten and himself were between Theron and any threats as they made their way back out.

The ranger’s eyes watered with pain every time he tried to draw his bowstring, and every arrow he used either embedded itself in a less damaging place than he’d intended or skittered off stone and missed the target entirely. He realised after a time that he simply couldn’t use his bow without making his two major injuries worse. Was that why the torturer had paid so much attention to his chest and back? They knew he was an archer, so it made sense.

Finally, the trio made their way back to Eamon’s estate, Sten explaining to the group what had happened to keep them distracted while Wynne and a few other healers Eamon had employed tended to Theron’s injuries.

Due to the extent of them, one of the healers gave the ranger a sleeping draft, so he was mercifully unconscious as they cleaned the burn wounds and closed some of the deeper cuts. Zevran sat in a corner of the room throughout, as inconspicuous as he could be, so he was there when Wynne let out a gasp when she made the connection between the _vallaslin_ and chest injuries.

“I made sure that every guard I saw suffered for that little joke, do not worry.” He spoke up from cleaning a dagger.

It was a little difficult finding a position for Theron to rest in once they were done that wouldn’t pain him as he slept off the draft, but it was managed with two carefully placed pillows.

It was only then that Wynne finally let the Antivan approach, her face drawn with tiredness as she looked down at the sleeping ranger, his chest covered with stark, bone-white bandages that smelt of bitter poultices and the sharpness of healing magic.

“I didn’t realise Fort Drakon tortured it’s prisoners.” She admitted lowly as she packed away what remained of her healing supplies. The wrinkles on her face looked deeper, made her seem even older. “If I had of known, I would have readily fought that Cauthrien.”

“I don’t know why Theron surrendered like that.” Zevran replied, finally voicing something that had been nagging at him ever since the three had returned with Anora and her maid but without the ranger. “Giving up like that, it is not like him.”

“As far as I could tell, he seemed to have suffered some kind of mental break.”

She caught Zevran’s worried look, and quickly continued.

“Nothing serious or long lasting, of course. He should be completely fine, apart from the pain. I think he was simply sick of the fighting, and wanted it to stop. No doubt he was just as naive as I was about what they were going to do to him.”

The former Crow nodded in agreement, frowning down lightly at the Dalish elf, the way his chest rose and fell slowly under the bandages.

“He may have given up then, but he didn’t give in under the blade and whatever else they used on him - a brand, perhaps.” He pointed out.

“No, that burn was consistent with a weak fire spell, from a short distance away, perhaps even direct contact.” Wynne disagreed casually. “Part of the reason why we made him sleep was so it wouldn’t panic him when we used our magic on him, even if it was to heal him. There’s no telling what he’ll think of magic after he wakes. He squirmed enough when I healed all of his scrapes in other fights, but we didn’t want him to possibly turn hysterical or get violent after what happened. He’s been through enough without us unintentionally traumatising him further.”

Zevran shuddered at the idea.

“Thank you.” He said after a few minutes of quiet, and the senior mage smiled faintly; Zevran was looking down at the sleeping elf, she didn’t think he’d seen it from the corner of his eye.

“You’re welcome.” She responded, picking up her bag and sighing. “He should be fine resting for now, so you don’t need to hover like that. He’ll be in pain when he does wake up, and will be for quite some time.” Wynne paused, looking at Zevran. “And no… Exertions. If he can’t dress himself, he can’t do anything else.” She added knowingly, and the Antivan smirked just as knowingly back. How uncreative did she think he was?

“Alas, how will I go on? Will you permit me to rest your head upon your bosom, so I may cry?”

“You may certainly not. If you wish to cry, do it well away from my bosom.” The mage frowned, but both of them knew it was just a way to relieve the tension that had built up so far in the quiet room. Theron would survive now he was out of that place.

Zevran nodded as if in defeat, and Wynne left the room in silence.

“ _Mi amor_.” The Antivan muttered, wanting nothing more than to lie beside the ranger and curl up against him, but he was too concerned with accidentally hindering his recovery. Besides, Theron would apparently not wake up for some time.

Instead, the blond pulled a chair over to sit next to the bed, fully prepared to spend the rest of the day in the room. He had nowhere else to go, no-one needed to talk to him. He was not a Grey Warden, merely a stray they happened to run across and decided to take with them, a follower who was not privy to their ways. He would be overlooked, as always, and that worked to his advantage more often than not so he was content with that.

Zevran lightly rested his head against Theron’s relaxed shoulder, careful of the bandages, and breathed in the smell of him, of cool forests and soil rich with the promise of new growth. The ranger was damaged, but not broken. They had tried, but he had bowed in the gale like a tree, enduring. _They could never break him_ , the stubbornness in that grey gaze had said when he’d been rescued. He would be okay.


End file.
